


Trapped in Fur

by Versipellium



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Deputy Stiles Stilinski, F/M, M/M, Slow Build, Wolf Derek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-09-06 21:29:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8770000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Versipellium/pseuds/Versipellium
Summary: He shouldn’t linger here any longer. Derek willed the shift, more than ready to stretch back into his more comfortable flesh.

 But nothing happened.
His brow furrowed in confusion and he tried again, focusing on stretching his fingers and standing upright. But his fingers stayed as toes and his legs refused to rearrange themselves. A jolt of panic surged through him because surely no.
When Derek is trapped in his full shift by a vindictive witch, he heads back to Beacon Hills in the hope that the roar of a true alpha might get him out of it. But things often have a way of not working out for Derek Hale.
It's all good though. Stiles was thinking about getting a K9 partner anyway.





	1. Rough Beginnings

He hadn’t been looking for trouble, alright? He’d been _trying_ to keep his head down. He kept out of the way of his neighbors, paid his bills, and even owned his own goddamn house. Sure, it was a bit on the dilapidated side, but _still_. It’s not like he was squatting in public property.

Yet try as he might to avoid it, trouble always seemed to have a way to find him. Today, for instance, when his quiet night at home was interrupted by a shrill scream of panic.

Derek jerked out of his book and towards the sound. Another screech had him dropping the paperback and slamming the front door behind him. 

The werewolf followed the acrid stench of fear as it wound its way around conifers. The scream had come from deep in the woods; it wasn’t the kind of thing he would have heard without enhanced hearing. The wind was on his side today, carrying scents of alarm and terror his way. Alarm and terror weren’t too uncommon in a forest; that was the circle of life at work. But mixed with lavender scented shampoo? That blend was bit more damning.

Derek slowed down when he started to hear muffled shouts. The kind of noises someone makes when they have a gag shoved in their mouth. Coming to a full stop, he focused on his senses. There was the pitter-patter of small, clawed feet on bark and the creak of a branch as another animal, likely a large bird, shifted its weight. He could smell the stale urine of some mammal nearby, but the aroma of lavender shampoo was far more pungent. He was close.

Derek was too loud like this: shoes snapping twigs and the slide of denim-clad thighs brushing together. So he carefully – _quietly_ – peeled out of his clothes and dropped into his shift.

No matter how many times he did this, it still felt new and exciting. Derek’s jaw snapped forward, his nose going with it to stretch into a muzzle. His hair lengthened and thickened into a thick pelt of black fur, accompanied with the uncomfortable creak and pop of bones and tendons realigning. It was over in less than a second and Derek couldn’t help his flush of pride: he was getting better at this.

It was much easier to sneak through the conifers like this, his large paws nearly soundless on scattered pine needles. Other scents started to permeate the air as he got closer. Scents that, frankly, he couldn’t identify. It didn’t bode well.

The muffled squealing continued, but there was an undercurrent of murmuring that Derek could now pick up. Soft, gentle whispers of foreign words. The werewolf strained his hearing and realized with alarm that he couldn’t place the language. That also didn’t bode well. Derek’s skill with tongues had once been a strength. A novelty now that his life had whittled down to just making it day-by-day, but still.

_“Te preses ot be savi'ok,”_ the voice whispered. Or, at least, that was Derek’s best guess as to what was being whispered. It’s a bit hard to make out words when you don’t know what they are.

He crept closer with his head low, nose nearly scraping the ground, until finally the scene was in sight. A girl lay bound and gagged, plastic coated ropes linking her neck to her feet. Despite the hogtie, she kept thrashing. The girl twisted her hands in their binds and kicked her legs feebly, panic blinding her to the fact that she was strangling herself. Next to the girl stood another. The woman was attractive, Derek could credit her that, but something about her beauty had an off-putting uncanniness to it. Long locks of inky, black hair cascaded down her back, the scent of lavender reaching him every time those locks shifted. Her lips moved and Derek heard her whispered foreign words again, _“Sei ik brin engo grewa.”_

A small ditch had been dug out in a circle around the pair, almost as if they were expecting to light a bonfire and wanted a firewall around it. At regular intervals in the ditch lay little bowls filled with…things. Their scents were foreign and irregular, changing too fast for him to identify.

_“Te preses ot be savi’ok,”_ she repeated, bending down to pick something up. A knife came into view, long and curved. Also not boding well. Strike three. 

_Seriously, that’s what it took?_ he could almost imagine Stiles’ saying, _What about the gagged, hogtied, and terrified chick? That didn’t do it for ya?_ He didn’t know why the teenager haunted his thoughts. Though, Derek supposed, it might have something to do with the absence of other people in his life. Loneliness had a way of playing with your mind.

The full shift werewolf stepped out of his hiding place and growled, fangs bared and eyes a vibrant blue. The woman stalled for a moment and looked over to the black wolf first in surprise, then displeasure.

He had kind of been hoping for fear.

“Do not interrupt what you do not understand, young one,” she murmured, “Or you will not live to grow old.”

It wasn’t the _worst_ threat he had ever heard. But, as far as threats go, it was still far from effective. Derek crouched low and then launched, hind legs vaulting him over the edge of the small ditch.

Or, at least, that had been what he _intended_ to do. Instead, he smashed nose first into an invisible barrier and bounced off, landing awkwardly on his haunches. The gagged girl squealed even louder, though Derek couldn’t be sure if it was because of the apparent barrier or because she thought a wolf was trying to eat her.

_Real smart, dumbass. Can add that one to your list of awesome plans._ Derek huffed and got back up, trying to brush off his Stiles-themed consciousness.

The woman had turned her attention away from him, evidently deciding he wasn’t much of a threat, and was again whispering in the strange tongue, _“Sei ik brin engo oposet.”_

And with that she looked up to the night sky, stars mostly obstructed by all of the nearby light pollution from Seattle, and raised the dagger high.

Not good.

Acting on impulse, Derek surged forward and willed his shift. His front toes stretched out into fingers, bones lengthening and snapping into place as his body underwent the change. It was just fast enough for him to grab one of the bowls and fling it at the woman’s head.

A few things happened at once. One, Derek had a surge of absurd relief that he had actually been able to grab the bowl. Without a line of mountain ash to clue him in, invisible barriers were stupidly frustrating. Two, whatever had been going on in that bowl made it _scorching_ to the touch. Derek didn’t realize just how bad until after he had hurled the bowl and his hand came back a blistering mess. Three, the woman dropped the knife, which had been the point so at least that was something. And four, the bound girl burst into flames.

Honest to god flames.

Derek stumbled back in horror, the girl’s blood-curdling cries muffled by the gag and yet still seeming louder than life. The scent of scorched flesh and singed hair made bile rise in his throat and it was all he could do to not vomit.

The woman wheeled on him as the girl burned at her feet. “You!” she shrieked in outrage, “You mongrel! You _ruined_ it!”

_Now might be a good time to run._ For once, he enthusiastically agreed with the voice in his head.

He spared the girl one last look and forced himself to commit the sight to memory: her skin blistering in some places and burning to a crisp in others, eyes open wide in pain and terror, body thrashing unnaturally. If he didn’t try to save her, then the least he could do was remember.

The woman was walking towards him, her stride angry and purposeful. Derek launched himself into a sprint, ducking under branches and weaving around massive trunks. Pine cones cut into the soles of his feet, but he ignored the sting and pressed on.

Behind him, he could hear the woman advancing, the crunch of underbrush getting closer and closer. Derek was tempted to look and see how the hell she was gaining on him, but that’d slow him down and was probably a bad idea. Yet there was no denying that she was closing the gap. Derek sacrificed a stutter step in order to launch himself into his lupine form. Paws landing on the ground, he careened through the trees faster than he ever could have on two legs.

The snap of twigs behind him was starting to fade away as he gained distance. Lungs burning and paws barely touching the ground, Derek pushed faster. He ran in a random direction, not at all wanting this woman to track him back to his house. It was when the sounds of his pursuer had become so faint he could barely hear them, when he finally allowed himself to think he might be able to get out of this, that his limbs stalled.

Derek tumbled forward, momentum carrying him several painful feet farther. His body refused to yield, locked in mid-stride, as he bounced off of the ground. Bones snapped with the awkward and rigid fall, but the slew of broken bones seemed to be the least of his problems. Because while he could already feel the burning itch of his healing at work, he could also hear the now slow stride of his pursuer approaching.

He wanted to snarl in frustration, but his jaw was locked in place and the sound that escaped was closer to a wheeze. The steps continued to advance and Derek realized with an odd sort of fury that it’d take her _minutes_ to get to him.

Judging from her absence of haste and his complete and total inability to move, minutes were probably something she had. After so many close calls, it was frustrating to think that _this_ was what’s finally going to kill him.

Some of the teenagers he once knew had made a bet about this. Erica and Boyd had thought it’d be hunters. Isaac had been optimistic and gone with old age. Stiles had his money on Colonel Mustard in the ballroom with the candlestick.

Well, they were all wrong. It was going to be some kind of magic user in Seattle. Because he threw a bowl at her.

With a pang, he realized they’d probably never even know. Isaac and Cora might still have some kind of pack bond with him and feel the loss, but they were both far from Beacon Hills. His home town would carry on, never realizing that he was well and truly gone. That thought shouldn’t sting so badly.

Derek released a huff (the best approximation of a sigh he could manage) and waited for the inevitable.

_So what, you’re just going to take this lying down?_ fake Stiles’ sounded insulted.

_Shut up,_ he wanted to tell it. But it’s a bit hard to tell your own thoughts to shut up, so instead he tried to distract himself. There was an eagle nearby; he could hear its feathers ruffle as it likely cleaned itself. Derek focused on that instead of the impending doom that came in the form of crunched pine needles.

Eventually she came into view. Lavender scented shampoo, long black hair, and complete and utter fury. Derek would have winced if his facial muscles would cooperate.

“Do you have any idea,” she murmured, “how long it’ll be until the next proper alignment?”

Derek hadn’t a clue. Didn’t even know what she meant by ‘proper alignment.’ But he was pretty damn sure that didn’t matter.

The woman crouched low, hovering just inches from his muzzle, dark locks tickling his fur, and Derek had never been more frustrated about not being able to move. “You think you have the right to intervene because you are a shifter?”

He wished she’d just get on with it and quit the rhetorical questions.

The woman curled her fingers into the fur at his shoulder and hissed, _“Savi’ok she’lu, kal engo tu’o og fotaw.”_ It would figure that he’d be killed by a language he couldn’t understand. Considering the role that he had been meant to play in his family’s pack, it seemed both ironic and fitting.

_“Savi’ok she’lu, kal engo tu’o og fotaw,”_ she repeated. Derek didn’t feel any different. No pain or tingling or anything like that. But maybe he wasn’t supposed to feel any kind of build-up. Maybe he was just going to spontaneously combust like that girl had. Also a painfully fitting way for him to die.

_“Savi’ok she’lu, kal engo tu’o og fotaw,”_ her other hand dug into the dirt, pushing hard packed soil out of the way, _“Savi’ok she’lu, kal engo tu’o og fotaw. Savi’ok she’lu. Savi’ok she’lu._ Savi’ok she’lu!”

And then she was gone.

Derek blinked in bewilderment, then realized that he _could_ actually blink, and _then_ realized that the soft colors of sunrise were lighting the woods.

She hadn’t disappeared. He had passed out.

Derek twisted around and got back on all fours. He could move…and the stinging itch of healing was missing. Everything felt like it was working. It seemed as if his body had healed his broken bones while he was out. He didn’t feel any different at all, actually. And he couldn’t sense anyone nearby. There was a residual lingering of lavender scented shampoo, but it was faint.

It didn’t make sense.

Whatever the case, he shouldn’t linger here any longer. Derek willed the shift, more than ready to stretch back into his more comfortable flesh.

But nothing happened.

His brow furrowed in confusion and he tried again, focusing on stretching his fingers and standing upright. But his fingers stayed as toes and his legs refused to rearrange themselves. A jolt of panic surged through him because _surely_ no. This couldn’t be happening. Werewolves don’t just get _stuck_ in a shift. Not unless they had forgotten themselves and, no, Derek hadn’t forgotten himself. He didn’t run around hunting deer. He ate cooked meals, paid bills, unclogged the toilet when it got backed up. _Human_ things.

But try as he might, his fur wouldn’t recede. His bones wouldn’t realign. His tendons shifted when he moved around, but no more so.

He trotted back to where he had left his clothes on the off chance that would help. Derek had read both Roman and Middle-age French stories about werewolves who couldn’t change back until they had recovered their clothes. Maybe he was just in some weird Twilight Zone where the rules shifted to thousand-year-old fiction.

But, once he reached his clothes, there was no miraculous transformation. His body still refused the shift. Derek pushed his muzzle into the folds of his shirt, as if that’d change anything. He even tried to bury himself under his clothes in a poor approximation of wearing them. Yet the fabric still offered no assistance. 

Derek couldn’t really remember heading back to his home. He wouldn’t be able to explain why he had dragged his jeans and shirt along, held tight in his jaw. And he didn’t really know why, when he failed to get his front door open, he crawled under his back porch.

_You ready to stop moping?_ that familiar voice snapped after he had spent hours with his belly flat to the ground and wooden beams digging awkwardly into his spine.

_Shut up,_ he wanted to grumble back. But it wouldn’t do any good. It wasn’t as if it was actually Stiles he was talking to. Just his own fucked up psyche.

What was he supposed to do? He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life as a wolf. That was just…barbaric. Sure, his run down house was hardly the model of civilization, but it was at least _human_. The Dr. Seuss story _In a People House_ suddenly came to mind and Derek felt hysterical laughter bubble up. Only it didn’t come out as a laugh at all. Instead, it sounded like an odd mix between a yip and a huff. Because he’s a _fucking wolf_.

There has to be some way to fix this. He could maybe track down the woman and force her to change him back. _Great plan, tell me how it goes for you,_ his consciousness retorted. Honestly, why couldn’t his brain default to Scott instead?

_Scott!_ he realized with a jolt. Scott had forced Malia to change back, even after she had forgotten herself for years. This wasn’t quite the same thing, but surely it was better to try Scott’s roar than to wallow underneath his back porch. 

_Atta boy,_ pseudo-Stiles faux praised.

_Shut up,_ he thought back.

He couldn’t really get on the phone and call Scott like this, nor could he get in his car and drive. Public transit also seemed like a bad idea, because he’s a _fucking wolf_. And if that wasn’t going to become his new mantra, he didn’t know what would.

Derek scooted out from the space under his porch and shook himself, dirt flying in all directions. He gave one last look to his house and huffed. If anyone came by and found his shirt and pants under the porch, they’d probably peg him as having gone crazy and run off. Which, he supposed, wasn’t too far from the truth.

He turned away and padded towards the forest. It was going to be a long walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was loosely inspired by the excellent fic, [Wolf in the House](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3992896) by [JoeLawson](http://archiveofourown.org/users/JoeLawson/pseuds/JoeLawson). Inspired in the "wolf Derek living with Stiles" sense. That's as far as the inspiration goes. I'm not capable of writing fluff, this will be more "slice of life" style.
> 
> The conlang used was created by an industrious individual and is called New Kalot. You can play with its translator at [LingoJam.](https://lingojam.com/NewKalot)


	2. The Alpha's Roar

Twenty-eight days.

Or, at least, Derek was pretty sure it had been twenty-eight days. He might have lost count a few times. Fortunately, his lupine body was well suited to distance travel. His paws were large and flexible enough to handle the host of different terrains he passed through, and the way his limbs were arranged allowed him to trot for hours with very little effort.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t much of a hunter. When he was near towns he could go dumpster diving, but when he was in the thick of some state park he had to get creative. Rabbits had been the easiest: fast but stupid. Sometimes, Derek could trick them into backing themselves in a corner. And other times they’d scamper away and he’d be left hungry.

As for eating raw rabbits? Derek was perfectly happy to never talk about it. Ever.

He nearly got shot twice by hunters (not the werewolf kind, just the deer and duck kind), who were probably more alarmed at seeing a wolf in their leisure hunt than he was to see a hunter. The third time, a portly, middle-aged, balding man succeeded in burying a bullet in his flank. Derek could hear the man and his buddies combing the woods for nearly an hour afterwards to find the wounded wolf, but Derek had already healed and was continuing his trot to Beacon Hills.

 _Watch Scott not even be there,_ fake-Stiles mocked.

That would be _supremely_ disappointing…but plausible. It had been years since Derek left. The teenagers wouldn’t be teenagers any more. They’d be adults… Derek counted the years and figured they’d either have jobs or be in grad school.

There wasn’t much Derek could do about that. If Scott wasn’t in Beacon Hills, then hopefully _someone_ was. Someone who wouldn’t balk at the sight of a wolf in their yard. And if there wasn’t? Well…Derek would cross that bridge when he got to it.

Being in the Beacon Hills Preserve after so many years away was like a blast of familiar, fresh air. He could even recognize some of the trees. There was a cedar he passed that had claw marks from a teenage Laura. An oak with _Derek_ and _Paige_ sloppily etched into its bark. A trickling path of water that he remembered Scott and Stiles splashing across that day he first met them. If Derek let himself think about it, it felt like coming home.

Scott’s house had been right at the edge of a tree line, making it easy to slip in close without the human population becoming aware of the wolf in their neighborhood. But, when Derek padded silently up to the building, it was only to find the absence of any kind of scent he associated with Scott. He needed to be sure, so he crouched low and stalked behind the trees until he was within sight.

A child of about six was swinging on an unfamiliar, aluminum swing set in what had once been Scott’s backyard. Her little legs pumped as she worked herself higher and higher with each arc. Derek had never been so upset to see a kid on a swing set.

The wolf stayed crouched in his hiding place for a good hour, needing to be _absolutely_ sure before he gave up on the house. But the woman who came out to fetch the girl was a stick-thin, platinum blonde who looked nothing like Melissa McCall. And when, after another hour of waiting, the only other person to give any sign of their presence in the house was an unfamiliar man, Derek had to admit to himself that the McCall’s no longer lived in this home.

This wasn’t unreasonable, he tried to tell himself. He had known Scott’s mother was struggling with finances. Derek could remember a sheepish Scott returning a duffle bag of Peter’s money, stumbling over his explanation for why he kept it for so long. It made sense that the single mother would sell the house after her son went off to college.

So that made the Stilinski’s his next stop. The Sheriff’s home was tucked a bit further into suburbia, so Derek waited for nightfall before slinking out of the trees and into the neighborhood. With night on his side, Derek hoped that his dark pelt would blend in decently. Considering that there were no shouts of alarm as he worked his way to the Stilinski residence, he figured it was doing a pretty good job.

The house looked to be empty, but a familiar blue Jeep was sitting in the driveway. Derek nearly melted in relief at the sight of the rust bucket. What were the odds that the Stilinski’s moved away and the new owners kept an ancient, blue Jeep around? A million to one, Derek had to believe.

 _And to think, you used to make fun of my baby._ Derek was tempted to roll his eyes, but instead settled for squeezing himself between two bushes. Nothing to do now but wait.

It wasn’t until dawn that the purr of a familiar cruiser roused Derek from a fitful slumber. The wolf jerked upright before remembering that he had tucked himself between bushes. The branches snagged in his already tangled fur, but that hardly mattered because the Sheriff’s cruiser was rolling into the driveway.

Derek stayed where he was while the Sheriff stepped out of his vehicle. The man looked tired and worn, giving his legs a little shake before planting them on the pavement. Completely fair to be tired, Derek thought, after such a long night. The wolf was beyond tired as well.

The Sheriff lumbered up his driveway, fishing keys out of his pocket with a loud yawn. _Now or never,_ Derek realized. The wolf dragged himself out of his hiding spot and gave a loud huff, hoping to catch the Sheriff’s attention in a non-threatening way.

It hadn’t worked. The Sheriff jerked when he saw the large animal in his yard and instantly went to his firearm.

 _Great work, dumbass,_ pseudo-Stiles offered, ever helpful.

 _You got any better ideas?_ he thought back snappishly. Which was stupid, because it wasn’t really Stiles. He briefly considered maybe needing a therapist.

“Easy now,” the Sheriff was muttering, gun trained on Derek and taking slow steps back to his vehicle.

Derek rolled his eyes, finding the whole scenario ridiculous. And _that_ seemed to get the Sheriff’s attention. The man froze for a second, brows drawn in confusion, before sputtering, “Did you just _roll your eyes_ at me?”

 _That’s better,_ Derek thought to himself. The Stiles-criticism was notably absent. Derek bobbed his head once, hopefully approximating a nod, before flashing his eyes a bright blue.

“Christ,” the Sheriff muttered, running a hand across his face. He stared at Derek for a long moment, probably trying to decide if the strange, full shift werewolf was friend or foe, before holstering his firearm. “Well get inside before the neighbors see you,” he finally muttered, going to open his front door.

* * *

Stiles was on his fourth…no, fifth? Ah fuck, _seventh_ cup of coffee. He was jittery, kept running to the bathroom, and couldn’t keep his thoughts from running a mile-a-minute. _But_ he was almost done with his paperwork.

Major accidents involved major paperwork, and _just_ before the end-of-shift last night they got a call for a five car pile-up on CA-49 north. Stiles didn’t even know how you could even _manage_ a five car pile-up on CA-49 north. There were only two damn lanes where the accident happened.

Which led to a long night of questioning people in shock, locking up one drunk driver, and a _mountain_ of paperwork. The entry boxes on his computer screen were starting to blur together when his phone buzzed, making him jump in caffeine-induced alarm.

His dad, of all people. Stiles groaned and answered the call, wondering what the hell his dad wanted _now_. Hopefully not more paperwork. Stiles didn’t think he could handle more paperwork.

 _“Stiles,”_ his dad’s voice came over the line, and Stiles was suddenly sitting much straighter because that wasn’t the hey-here’s-some-more-paperwork tone his dad used. It was the I’m-trying-to-stay-calm-but-holy-shit-stuff’s-going-down tone.

“What’s up?” Stiles asked, turning away from the deputy at the nearest desk, as if that’d ensure privacy.

_“There’s a werewolf in my living room. One that’s an honest to god wolf. Do you know anything about this?”_

Stiles sucked in his breath because _no_ , he definitely didn’t know anything about this. Hell, he didn’t even _know_ any werewolves that were capable of full shifts. Malia was a coyote, not a wolf. Supposedly Derek could do it, but no one had heard from him in ages.

A thought struck him and Stiles squinted his eyes in suspicion. Because _no way._

“What, exactly, does it look like?” he asked carefully.

 _“Completely black. And its eyes glow blue, like Malia’s,”_ his dad answered in a hushed whisper, as if that’d help. Stiles resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“Uh huh,” Stiles muttered. He tapped his pen erratically on his desk’s edge, “Any chance it responds to the name Derek?”

There was the staticy sound of a phone being shifted, followed by a distant call of _Derek?_ coming through the line. The phone shifted again and his dad replied, _“Yep, he responded.”_

Stiles wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or rage. Seriously, after all this time the dude comes back with no warning, and in full shift to boot?

And then the deputy remembered the pattern of bad luck that was Derek Hale. What if he had turned feral? Crawling back to his den or whatever because he couldn’t remember shit. Or what if he was horribly disfigured and wouldn’t shift back because he’s vain as fuck? The dude could deny it all he wanted, no one keeps themselves looking that hot without some level of vanity.

The idea of a feral werewolf holed up with his dad was not a good one. “Dad,” he asked urgently, “Does he seem feral at all?”

 _“Hey,”_ the tinny sound of his dad speaking with the receiver far away came across, _“You feral?”_

Stiles wanted to smack his forehead, but then his dad relayed the werewolf’s reaction, _“He shook his head no.”_

Well then.

“Alright…I’ll be right there,” Stiles muttered, already locking his computer. Looked like paperwork could wait after all.

The drive from the station to his dad’s house was white-knuckled and probably faster than it should have been. But he’s a cop now, dammit, and if he wanted to speed then he should damn well be able to speed. He pulled up behind his old baby, who hadn’t run in a long time but Stiles would be damned if he sent it to the junkyard. No, he just had to get it to a good mechanic. Eventually.

And keep bribing his dad to keep it in his driveway. It was a good system, okay?

The front door swung open when he got to it, his dad already waiting for him. And, true to his word, just inside the living room was a black wolf. The animal’s fur was matted nastily, with twigs and remnants of leaves and mud and dirt and other things Stiles didn’t care to identify stuck in it. But its eyes were the giveaway. They bored into Stiles with an intelligence that an animal just wasn’t meant to have. And the deputy might just be imagining it, but he could have sworn he saw the wolf sag in relief.

Stiles licked his lips and asked as casually as he could muster, “Derek?”

The animal bobbed its head once and Stiles felt a disbelieving laugh bubble out of him. “Dude!” he still wasn’t sure if he was excited or upset. “Where the hell have you been!? And why are you,” he made a vague gesture, “like that?”

The wolf – _Derek_ – honest to god rolled its eyes and huffed.

Alright. So no wordy answers. Twenty questions then. Stiles could work with that. He plopped down to the floor, his deputy uniform crinkling with the bent position, and started, “Are you like that cause you have to be?”

A head bob. Stiles was going to interpret that as a yes.

“Is it a choice thing or a no choice thing?” That got him a hard look in return, which was _weird_ because it was a _wolf_ giving the squinty-eyed expression, but oh…right. Yes or no only. He was going to blame the caffeine.

“Right, okay, so is it a choice thing?” The wolf – _Derek_ , he tried to remind himself – shifted its muzzle left then right. That’d be a no. “You disfigured?” Another muzzle shift for no, with an eye roll for good measure. Seriously, eye rolls on a wolf were way weirder than Stiles would have ever guessed.

He chewed on his lip before asking, “Did you come here for help?” There was a pause, then a slow head bob. Stiles exhaled sharply and rubbed his face, “Are you in danger?”

Wolf-Derek (Stiles was having trouble thinking of the animal as just _Derek_ ) paused for a moment, seeming to consider the question before shifting its muzzle left then right.

Stiles didn’t like that pause one bit, so he followed it up with, “Is anybody else in danger?” That got him a squinty-eyed look in return and for a moment he could almost imagine Derek snapping, _No, but if you don’t get to the point, there will be._ The animal shook its head no.

Okay. So nobody was in danger, but wolf-Derek had come here for help because him being in full shift was not a choice thing. Stiles’ expression screwed up in confusion because _how the hell_ did a werewolf get stuck in a shift? “What’d you do,” he snapped, “piss a witch off?”

He had _meant_ it sarcastically. So when wolf-Derek bobbed his head in a yes, Stiles really couldn’t help but laugh. It came out of him loud and almost hysterical, sleep-deprivation not lending any aid in him not being an ass. He only managed to stop when he realized his dad had gone rigid and was moving towards his firearm.

Apparently wolf-Derek didn’t think it as funny, because his muzzle was distorted in a snarl and oh grandma, what big fangs you have.

And, alright, that was probably a shitty thing to do. Because wolf-Derek looked like he had been through hell and Stiles laughing at his face probably wasn’t what he came here for. The deputy ran a hand through his hair and sighed, “Sorry, sorry, it’s just…alright, my bad.”

The apology at least got wolf-Derek to stop snarling, so that was something. His dad still looked like he was ready to unload a clip though. Stiles waved a hand and murmured, “Stand down, Sheriff. He won’t bite.”

That got him another wolfy eye roll and _seriously_ , those were weird.

Stiles scrubbed his face again, not at all awake enough for this, and grumbled, “Soooo you need help getting out of whatever witchy hex you’re in?”

Another head bob. Stiles sighed. Of course Derek would only come back because he needed help getting out of some shit. Well, whatever. Stiles could be helpful. Ask and you shall receive. Genie in a bottle. Your wish was his command.

 _Too much coffee_ , Stiles thought, shaking his head to try and clear it.

Okay, so get Derek out of a wolfy shift. Stiles supposed that’s what Scott did for Malia. Probably what Derek was thinking too. “You here for Scott’s suped-up alpha roar?” Stiles asked for confirmation.

Wolf-Derek gave yet another head bob. Which just goes to show how out of touch Derek was with Beacon Hills’ goings-on. Because Scott? Hasn’t lived here in years. Sure, him and Stiles put in the effort to see each other at least a few times a year because they were _brothers_ , no matter what anyone said. But things had cooled off in the supernaturally-themed town and Scott had a veterinary career to worry about.

When Stiles told Derek as much, he could practically see the werewolf deflate.

“Hey,” Stiles muttered, feeling a bit bad for how snappish he was being in the face of what was probably an existential crisis, “We can go visit him. It’s only an hour and a half drive. You can even sit shotgun.”

Stiles wasn’t too sure what expression wolf-Derek was making, but it wasn’t an eye roll, so at least there was that.

* * *

They decided to meet halfway, near Roseville. UC Davis was way too populated and there were some nice, remote woods near Folsom Lake where Scott could let loose his best bitch-you-better-be-human-again roar.

Stiles fidgeted awkwardly in the driver’s seat of his cruiser, wolf-Derek a solid and silent presence next to him.

The werewolf still looked like shit. Wolf-Derek had been in no mood to get hosed down and Stiles hadn’t really been in the mood to fight him on that count, so he stayed matted and dirty. But it was no big deal. Because Scott was going to go all true alpha and roar Derek back to humanity, and then the matted fur problem would be resolved all on its own.

Eventually wolf-Derek jerked his head in the direction of the road, and a minute later Scott’s bike rolled into the rest stop. Stiles breathed a sigh of relief, more than ready to get this over with.

He got out of his car and moved around to let Derek out, trying not to think too hard on how weird that was, before turning and getting engulfed in a bear hug. A _very_ welcome bear hug, he might add. Ridiculous situation or not, it was awesome to get some much needed Scott-time.

“It’s great to see you,” Scott beamed when the pair finally separated.

“You too,” Stiles admitted, “Vet school all good?”

Scott wrinkled his nose, “Still sucks. And then there’ll be residency, and paying off loans. But it’ll get better eventually.”

“Right,” Stiles agreed, totally willing to be optimistic on this one.

“So,” Scott said carefully, turning his attention to the wolf hovering nearby, “This is Derek?”

At wolf-Derek’s answering nod, Scott sheepishly scratched the back of his neck. “Sorry,” he murmured, “I didn’t mean to…nevermind, let’s just go fix this.”

Wolf-Derek apparently didn’t need to be told twice, taking the cue and turning to go deeper into the woods. The pair exchanged a look, in which Scott seemed overly concerned and Stiles shrugged, before Scott moved to follow. Stiles took a moment to grab the sweatpants and shirt he brought for what would be a naked Derek before he too followed the werewolf’s path.

Once they were a good distance away from the dirt road, wolf-Derek turned and sat down. _Showtime,_ Stiles thought, suddenly giddy. It had been _ages_ since Scott had let rip an honest roar. Not gonna lie, Stiles was a bit excited.

Scott pulled his head back, sucked in a long breath, and then _exploded_. Not literally, but Stiles was pretty sure his ears were going to bleed. It lasted a full two seconds, with Stiles feeling like he was thrown in a blender. He couldn’t even _see_ properly. And then it was over. Stiles blinked once. Twice. Shook his head to clear it.

And Derek was still a wolf.

Well shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Currently betaless, [talk to me](http://scr.im/versipellium) if you're interested.


	3. Gravel Instead of a Garden

If Stiles thought the drive to Folsom Lake was weird, then the ride back was downright awful. Scott’s solo headlight was a blindingly bright spot in his rear view mirror, and Derek…

Well, Stiles didn’t know what to make of Derek.

It was as he’d sometimes forget to breath, then realize he hadn’t been breathing and pick it up double-time, and then subsequently fall back to nothing.

Whatever was going on in his head, it was probably _really_ private. And while there wasn’t much privacy Stiles could actually offer in the sedan, he did try his best to keep his eyes on the road and away from the freaking out werewolf.

They rolled into Deaton’s parking lot almost an hour after Scott’s failed attempt to get Derek back. The vet was waiting for them at the door, Scott’s late-night call rousing him from whatever else he had planned for the evening. 

“It’s good to see you again,” Deaton said to Scott, “Though I wish I could say it was under better circumstances.” He shifted his attention to the wolf hovering behind Stiles and his lips thinned. But whatever grim thoughts he was having, he kept them to himself. Not wasting any more time, Deaton turned to let them inside. The bell on the door jingled and wolf-Derek jerked as if startled. Stiles had to wonder just how much the dude was actually paying attention to his surroundings.

Once they were gathered in the brick-walled exam room, Deaton turned to face the trio, lingering longest on Derek. “I’m afraid I’m not sure how much help I can be, this is well beyond my expertise.”

Stiles blinked, feeling some serious déjà vu. Deaton met his gaze and for a moment the deputy thought he saw something flicker there as well. As if he too saw the absurdity of Derek being magicked into first a teenager and then trapped in full shift.

“Have you heard of this happening before?” Scott asked, somehow managing to pull off an air of calm panic.

“I’m afraid not,” Deaton confirmed apologetically, “I didn’t realize it was even possible to do this to a werewolf.” The vet shifted his attention back to the wolf in the room and asked, “Derek, I’d like to ask you a few questions. If I laid out letters, could you tap out your responses for me?”

Wolf-Derek lifted its – _his_ – focus from wherever he had been staring and gave a head bob.

Deaton offered an encouraging smile and came over with sheets of paper. There were six letters of the alphabet to a page, with two columns and four rows on each. The vet scattered the pages out in front of wolf-Derek and asked, “Do you know who did this to you?”

Wolf-Derek stared at the sheets of paper for a long moment, lips curling to show fangs, before he lifted a paw and rested it first on the **N** , then the **O**.

“Alright,” Deaton continued, “Can you describe them? You can touch the floor if you’d like to use spaces.” Stiles couldn’t resist a snort, which earned him a glare from both Scott and Deaton. What? He couldn’t find this funny? Stiles Stilinski’s patented rule number one for shitty situations: find something funny about them. Even if it’s just how stupid it sounds to say ‘touch the floor for spaces.’

Wolf-Derek didn’t seem to give a fuck about any snort anyways, his paw already moving to the **W.** Stiles watched as the wolf stretched for the next letters **O-M-A-N** , then smacked the floor, claws clacking loudly, and back to the sheets for **S-H-A-M-P-O-O**. Another slap to the floor and **L-A-V-E-N-D-E-R**.

And now Stiles _did_ laugh. “Well that’s great,” he chortled, “We’ll just check every lady who buys lavender shampoo. Great work, Nancy Drew.”

Wolf-Derek showed fangs before taking the effort to tap out **S-H-U-T-U-P.** To Stiles’ surprise, he felt himself relax. And that? Was weird. Being told to ‘shut up’ shouldn’t make him feel like he just found the remote buried in a couch cushion. 

“Derek,” Deaton pushed, opting to implement Project Ignore-Stiles, “Do you know _why_ she did this?”

Stiles had honestly expected the answer to be a big, fat _no_. That’s how things always seemed to go down in their merry little lives. They’re parading along, minding their own business, and then a shit storm comes right on in and uproots them. So when wolf-Derek started to tap out something that _didn’t_ start with a ‘n,’ Stiles had to do a double-take.

The letters came slowly, what with the whole paw-tapping system being a torturous process. The papers slipped on the linoleum under wolf-Derek’s massive pads and the wolf was sticking to only one paw. But they came. **I-N-T-E-R-U-P-T-E-D-** a tap on the floor **-S-A-C-R-I-F-I-C-E**. 

Stiles’ humor faded by the time wolf-Derek had gotten to the fourth letter in ‘sacrifice.’ Finding humor in shitty situations was one thing. Finding humor while drawing up the still vivid memory of Heather’s corpse was another.

There’s no humor in that.

“So…what,” Stiles mouth felt dry, “She was a darach?”

Derek’s not-Derek eyes bored into his for a long moment before he reached back over to the sheets. **S-A-V-I-O-K-S-H-E-L-U**.

Scott wavered, “I don’t think I got that one quite right. Saviokshelu?”

There was a bob of yes from wolf-Derek and Deaton hummed, “That’s not anything I’m familiar with.”

“So not a darach?” And if that came out sharper than Stiles intended…well. He could feel wolf-Derek’s eyes on him again. He ignored it.

“Derek,” Deaton commandeered his interrogation again, “Where did this happen? Was it close to Beacon Hills?”

The wolf shifted its head in a no before striking his paw across the letters **S-E-A-T-T-L-E**.

“What the hell were you doing in Seattle?” Stiles sputtered indignantly. Here he’d been, imagining Derek down in South America with Cora or running around with Braeden or _something_ far and remote. Instead he’s just up in fucking _Seattle?_

That got him a squinty eyed look from the wolf, but Stiles couldn’t really give a shit because _Seattle?_

“Well,” Deaton cut in, “It doesn’t appear that there’s any danger here.” There was a strange lilt at the word ‘here,’ but Stiles was still focused on _Seattle_.

He doesn’t know why this is upsetting him so much.

‘Yeah,” Scott agreed hesitantly, “But Derek still can’t shift back. And someone’s making sacrifices in Seattle.”

The click of claws on linoleum had the group turning back to wolf-Derek and his letters. Stiles managed to catch **P-E-R-A-L-I-G-N-M-E-N-T** before the wolf sat back again.

Deaton, evidently, had been paying closer attention. His thoughtful murmur of “proper alignment” made a lot more sense than whatever the hell ‘peralignment’ might have been.

“I can make a few phone calls,” Deaton offered, speaking almost entirely to Scott. Stiles just barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. A few phone calls, his ass. He had serious doubts about how many shits Deaton gave for anything that didn’t directly threaten Beacon Hills. Even then, the former emissary’s level of shits-given was iffy.

Scott had that I’m-thinking-really-hard-and-you-probably-won’t-like-what-I-decide look on his face as he worked his jaw and stared hard at wolf-Derek. Stiles held his breath and started to plan how he was going to swing vacation time for a Seattle trip. Because if Scott decides he’s going? Then Stiles is going. 

“Scott,” Deaton interrupted Scott’s train of thought, “I’m going to ask you to let me handle this one.” Scott didn’t look convinced, so Deaton pressed on, “There are people in a better position to work on this than you. And you have vet school to worry about, remember?”

Stiles watched the conflict warring across his friend’s features. After a long moment, Scott sucked in a deep breath and sighed out, “Alright.” He worked his jaw again and added, “But make sure they know I’m willing to help. I’ll make it work.”

Deaton smiled and his expression seemed to soften. It only lasted for a split second before he turned back to wolf-Derek, “In the meantime, I suggest you all make arrangements in case Derek doesn’t change back.”

The wolf was eerily still. Licking his lip, Stiles hazarded, “What kind of arrangements?”

His answering smile _looked_ sympathetic. Stiles just wasn’t feeling particularly cajoled by it. “A wolf running around town won’t go over well.”

“Wait,” Scott looked like he had bitten into something sour, “You mean…like…registering him? As a…,” that lemon was turning into a lime, “…as a _pet?”_

“I can’t make that decision for you,” Deaton’s attention had drifted back to Derek, who was still unnaturally motionless.

“Weeeeell,” Stiles said into deafening silence, needing to break the mounting tension and rouse a frozen Derek, “Now that we have _that_ food for thought. You all feeling tacos? I’m feeling tacos.”

That at least got a huff from wolf-Derek, so he was going to count it as a win.

* * *

They ended up not getting tacos.

That was more disappointing than it should have been. Derek could kill for something that wasn’t pulled out of a dumpster or bleeding on him.

Stiles fidgeted in his seat, as if there were spikes in the car’s upholstery. Derek would normally be annoyed, but in this particular moment he was a touch more concerned with the direction his life was heading. As a _pet_.

Derek pulled away from that thought again, not quite able to wrap his mind around the concept without bringing himself to the brink of a panic attack.

He could go live in the preserve. That would maintain his autonomy…but it came with its own set of horrors. Derek’s trek down to Beacon Hills had been arduous enough, and that was when he had thought the finish line came with a shower and bed. Living out there indefinitely? He’d probably go crazy.

 _As if you’re not already crazy,_ fake-Stiles jabbed.

The more real Stiles sitting next to him squirmed again.

 _Stop that,_ he wanted to snap. Instead he settled with snapping his jaw loudly, which only made Stiles jerk even harder.

He wanted to sigh. Wanted to sink into the seat and not have to deal with reality. But his wolfy huffs and wheezes were poor approximations of the deep, heavy sigh he was craving. And withdrawing from reality wasn’t going to do anyone any good, least of all himself.

 _This is fine,_ he told himself. He’d just have to adapt. That’s what he’s always done. Adapt and survive. He could do this.

Stiles pulled off the main road and into a street where double-wide mobile homes crowded close to each other. It wasn’t such a bad setup, as far as mobile parks went. Most looked like they had been nicely renovated, each had their low roofs extended out to serve as a carport, and many even had well maintained rock gardens in the narrow space between road and building front. And, perhaps most importantly, the street was surrounded on both sides by massive evergreens. The dense assortment of affordable homes thrust out for one strike into the ancient woods, but the breech had failed to expand any farther. Pine needles brushed against siding as the towering trunks crowded close, seeming to engulf the attempt at a neighborhood.

The cruiser rolled into the carport of a home with a gravel front in lieu of a fanciful rock garden. Stiles shut the engine off, sank back in his seat, and then stared at nothing.

Derek would have been just fine with that, if it wasn’t for all the damn twitching the twenty-something year old was still doing.

He snapped his jaw again, hoping that the message of _quit it_ would get across. Stiles shot him a scathing look and opened his mouth for some kind of retort. But he froze, slack jawed, and stared at something past Derek’s shoulder. Expression twisting into a grimace, Stiles hissed, _“Shit.”_

Derek turned to follow his gaze. There was perhaps two meters between the open side of the carport and one of the neighbor’s windows. And, peering out behind a lacy curtain, was a weathered, elderly woman.

“Well that couldn’t have happened any faster,” Stiles winced, “C’mon, let’s get you inside before the hag starts baking.”

And with that non sequitur, Stiles popped the door and climbed out. Derek tried to ignore the stranger’s piercing stare as Stiles moved around the car to let him out. And he tried not to think too hard on the towel that Stiles snatched from the car’s seat after he hopped out.

_As if I’d let your dirty ass on my seat._

Not real, he tried to remind himself.

The deputy locked the double-wide’s door behind them and Derek had to resist a snort; the deadbolt wasn’t doing the thin door any favors. Stiles wheeled around and plastered on one of his best, fake smiles, _“Welcome_ to Casa de Stiles! The first stop of our tour will be the bathroom because there’s _no way_ I’m letting you get all –” he made a vague, annoyed gesture at Derek – _“that_ on my carpet.”

Derek shot an aggravated look into the home; the rectangle of linoleum at the door immediately gave way to a carpeted room. Besides the frustration of being talked to as if he was a _child,_ it’s not like there even was a carpet-less path to a bathroom. What did he want him to do, levitate?

“Just…” Stiles kicked off his shoes and ran across the living room, “hold on for a minute.”

He disappeared into a room and Derek rolled his eyes when he heard the crash of things falling. “Got it!” Stiles hollered before returning with a plastic sled.

Oh no, not a chance.

Derek trekked into the living room, ignoring Stiles’ sputtered horror, and looked for wherever the hell this bathroom was. Spotting tile, Derek pushed the door open with a paw and left behind a streak of dirt. But he couldn’t be bothered to care. Far more pertinent was the full bath he had just stepped into.

There was a _shower_. Derek shuddered in relief and climbed over the acrylic edge. It was easy enough to spin one of the two taps up with a push of his paw, and he was promptly rewarded with a gush of frigid water soaking his feet. _Not the first time you’ve taken a cold one,_ he thought, trying for enthusiasm before pushing up the rod that would switch the flow to the showerhead.

The rod slid back down, failing to catch.

“Here, let me.” He hadn’t realized Stiles had followed him in. Long, slender fingers reached over and Derek snapped at them, fangs clacking loudly together. He did _not_ need help with this.

Stiles swore and jerked back. If Derek wasn’t so angry, he might be inclined to feel just the tiniest bit bad. But, as it were, rage that had once been simmering was now starting to boil over. This was just a goddamn shower. He should be able to do this.

He went to push it up again, the metal lip catching on a claw. The diverter went up, and then once again slid back down.

“You gotta really yank it,” Stiles offered, his hands making aborted twitches in the direction of the spout. Derek glared at him, then tried and failed once again to raise it with a claw. 

He was _not_ going to get beat by some stupid, cheap piece of metal. Derek twisted his head and bit the diverter, jerking it up with his teeth. The telltale rattle of the flow switching from the tub’s spout to the showerhead was all the warning he got before a chilly spray hit him.

Derek let it. Didn’t make any move to pull away. Didn’t waste time trying to get the hot water tap adjusted. Just enjoyed the victory.

“Sooo,” Stiles dragged out, interrupting his moment, “Are you just going to stand there, or are you gonna let me help?”

While it was tempting to tell him to go fuck off, Derek was indeed at a loss for what to do next. He could always rip open the shampoo bottle and roll in it, but that seemed a bit desperate. Relenting, Derek gave Stiles a sharp nod and tried to ignore the shame that bubbled up. It was only going to be this once. He’d figure out something else for the future.

“Awesome,” Stiles muttered, sounding like he thought it was anything but, “Just…hold still and don’t bite me, alright?” His uniform strained as he leaned forward to grab a bottle of Head & Shoulders 2-in-1. Derek wrinkled his nose in disgust at the brand, which had Stiles jerking back. “I didn’t even do anything yet!” he yelped.

Right. Probably looked like a snarl. Derek grit his teeth and wondered just how long of a learning curve this was going to be.

Stiles lathered his hands up with the awful smelling concoction and reached for Derek’s shoulder. And then promptly yanked it back with a gasp, _“Geez_ that’s cold. What are you, part polar bear?” He fiddled with the hot and cold water taps for a moment, seemingly satisfied when he got them to a particular orientation. It took a minute for the temperature to change, but Derek had to reluctantly admit that the warmer water was definitely better than the ice bath.

Stiles started off tentatively, his long fingers carding through the thick, double coat Derek was sporting. For his part, Derek stood as still as possible and stamped down his urge to threaten Stiles for the contact. 

As the minutes ticked by, however, the tangy scent of frustration mounted. “How much goddamn fur do you have?” Stiles finally shouted, “And why is it so matted? What the hell were you even _doing?”_ With a strangled sound, Stiles fell back on his ass and dug his suds-coated hands into his own hair.

Derek couldn’t answer him. Even if he was able to use words, he didn’t know what he could possibly say. Things around him had a way of falling apart. That’s just how it worked. It was one of the reasons he hid himself away; you can’t hurt those around you if there’s no one there to hurt.

“Okay,” Stiles finally said, “Alright. This is going to be alright. We’ll just get you cleaned up and then find a way to make you human and then you can go back to being Derek. Or, hey,” he offered a grandiose hand wave, “You could spontaneously turn back into old Derek all by yourself, like last time. Only minus the yellow-eyed, losing-your-wolf-powers, probably-going-to-die phase.” He brought his hands together and rubbed them absently, soap suds dropping on the floor, “That part sucked.”

The optimism, while misplaced, was appreciated. Derek pulled his mouth in what he hoped approximated a small smile, which earned him a tired nod from Stiles. Silence stretched for a long moment before Stiles dragged himself forward and returned to emptying his shampoo bottle on Derek’s back.

There was nothing tentative in his motions this time around; Stiles worked with a furious gusto. He scrubbed Derek’s back first, knocking away twigs, scraping off clumps of earth, and pulling out loose fur. The water swirling around the drain darkened in color and a collection of fur and twigs started to build. Stiles worked his way down Derek’s front legs next, pulling pieces of a pinecone out of what had once been an armpit. _This’ll be worth it once it’s over,_ Derek tried to remind himself, resisting the urge to jerk away.

Stiles next moved to Derek’s neck, working through the wolf’s mane, until he jumped back with a sputtered swear. “Sorry,” he mumbled once he recovered, “it’s just…” He leaned forward, nose wrinkled in disgust, and tugged something off. Derek watched, determinedly staving off emotion, as a snail was pulled away. Stiles set it aside and resumed.

Instead of continuing up to Derek’s head, Stiles went back to his hind legs. He scrubbed them down much like he had done for the front legs, though spent decidedly less time at the upper joints. Derek caught a poignant whiff of embarrassment before Stiles moved away from his legs and started on his belly.

 _“Please_ don’t bite me,” Stiles pleaded again. His fingers ran through the bushy fur of Derek’s tail, catching on knots. And, while the urge to snap at him was certainly overwhelming, Derek held still. A month of living in your own filth could be a powerful motivator.

Stiles pulled back and surveyed his work. His features scrunched in thought before he bolted upright and ran out of the bathroom. The bang of drawers being flung open carried across the double wide before Stiles returned with scissors in hand. “You’re going to keep holding still, or else you’re going to stay matted,” he threatened, sounding much more sure of himself than the anxious odor clinging to him suggested, “Agreed?”

Derek stared at the scissors for a long moment before reluctantly nodding. Stiles’ breath came out in a quick whoosh, the scent of anxiety spiked, and yet he still came to kneel besides the bathtub. The rasping sound of hair being cut made Derek want to twitch, but he held still as Stiles pulled off clump after clump and tossed them in the trash.

Eventually, after a torturously long period that Derek was adding to his list of things never to be talked about, Stiles was able to run a hand through his fur without it catching on anything. The scissors clattered on the tile and Stiles chewed on his lip, seeming to war with some decision. “Do you want me to do your face? Oooor…” he dragged the word out and shrugged awkwardly.

While it was tempting to skip, Derek was pretty sure there was dried blood on his maw. With a sharp nod, Derek beckoned Stiles to finish.

“Okay,” Stiles breathed. He put a small bit of Head & Shoulders on his fingertips, then slowly scratched the top of Derek’s head. Fingers worked their way behind his ears – if anyone accused him of shifting because it tickled, he’d fervently deny it – before tracing around to the side of his face. Stiles rubbed gently, carefully avoiding getting too close to Derek’s eyes, and moved down the top of his long muzzle. Nimble fingers slipped under his chin and scratched. Derek had stamp down on the urge to tilt his head up, the sensation more pleasing than he cared to admit. Eventually Stiles finished tracing out the canine contours, rinsed the suds out of his fingers, and went for another pass to rinse Derek’s fur. Once done with his face, Stiles dragged wet fingers across Derek’s back, sides, belly, legs, and tail. In some spots he made several passes, not stopping until he seemed satisfied that nothing but fur was left behind.

“There,” he finally exclaimed, sitting back on his heels, “Now you just look like a wet dog.”

Derek shot him a glare. A wet dog, huh? He shook himself, flinging water across the bathroom. Stiles lifted his arms to block the spray, but his indignant shout was drowned out by a loud series of rapid knocks.

They both froze. Derek could hear the grind of Stiles’ teeth and watched a muscle jump on his jawline. “Stay here,” he grated before he pushed up to his feet and left the bathroom.

There was the slide of a deadbolt being moved out of the way, the creak of a door swinging open, and then a forcefully cheerful, _“Hello_ Ms. Foster. How can I help you?”

“I saw you bringing in a dog,” the scent of freshly baked cookies wafting into the bathroom was in stark contrast to the scathing rasp of an angry, elderly woman, “It’s too big to be here. There’s rules, you know. Mindy will see to it that you’re evicted if you don’t get rid of it.”

“Yeah, well, he’s my new service dog,” the lie rolled easily, “And I have a legal right to have him here.”

“Service dog?” she sniffed disdainfully, “For what?”

“Anxiety. Terrible, crushing anxiety. And this conversation is making me even more anxious, so if you’ll excuse me, I really should get back to…you know, my service dog…for that anxiety. Thanks for the cookies!” Stiles finished in a rush, punctuated with the slam of a door and slide of the deadbolt.

He reappeared in the doorway holding a plateful of what smelled like sugar cookies in one hand and a towel in another. Stiles tossed the towel on Derek’s back and rubbed him down one-handed. When his double coat wasn’t quite so soaked-through, Stiles stepped back and grimaced, “We’re gonna have to call Malia. She’ll know how to play this out. At least until you – you know – change back.”

 _What’s there to play out?_ he couldn’t help but think. He was well and truly fucked. There was no sense in dragging anyone down with him. And yet…Stiles had just suffered through giving him a bath, was practically permeated with the rank stench of stress, and having one of his friends around might just do him good.

And so Derek nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Doctor Science](http://doctorscienceknowsfandom.tumblr.com/) offered her excellent beta skills for this chapter. Thanks for volunteering! Mistakes and poor storytelling are my own.
> 
> And thank you to everyone who's commented. It's great to hear what your enjoying about this fic.


	4. Boundary Conditions

_"What?"_

The word was barely a word. It was more of a mix between a hiss and a moan. Stiles flinched and blinked at the offending mobile phone, because that weird mix of hiss and moan? He knew _exactly_ when Malia made that noise.

Derek, who had been silently surveying the mess of paperwork strewn over the dining table, twisted to study Stiles instead. He lifted his snout like a dog nosing the air, flaring his dark nostrils.

For fuck's sake. Stiles rubbed his forehead and groaned into the phone, "Malia. We talked about this, remember?"

_"Right,"_ another panted moan, _"Just a minute."_ He heard a clatter, then the line cut out.

Stiles dropped his phone on the kitchen island a bit harder than he probably should have. This was _fine_. He could wait. He's an adult. Drumming his fingers against the laminate, Stiles alternated between glaring at his cell, the counter, and the wall. Definitely _not_ Derek. Seriously, out of all the people who could be around to eavesdrop. Stiles was already getting the judgy eyebrows for the mess that was his home. He so didn't need them for the mess that was his current personal life.

The phone's screen blinked back to life, announcing a call from Malia. Stiles swiped to answer and bit out, "All done?"

_"Yeah,"_ he could hear her smile, _"What's up?"_

"Derek didn't change back," he made an irritated hand wave that Malia wouldn't be able to see, "I need advice."

_"Sure, I'll show him the best caves tomorrow."_

He was pretty sure he didn't imagine the way wolf-Derek tensed up. Running his hand through his hair, Stiles corrected her, "No, Malia. No caves. I don't need werecoyote advice, I need animal control officer advice. And,” he rubbed his hand across his face, “it can’t really wait until tomorrow.” Stiles glared at the plate of fresh-out-of-the-oven sugar cookies, “My asshole neighbor already saw him. For all I know, she called your chief on me already.”

Stiles was almost tempted to shoot Derek an apology. In an ideal world they could crash and get some sleep before even thinking about anything that might have Derek ripping Stiles throat out on principle. Like leash laws. If they never talk about leash laws, Stiles would be thrilled. Skittering his fingers across the counter and grabbing its edge, he pressed, “I need good lies and I need them now.”

_"You should ask Mando then, he's the one that keeps all the rules straight. I just catch things. Here, one sec..."_ there was the muffled sound of things being shifted, accompanied with an exclamation of _What are you doing?_ in the background.

Stiles rubbed his forehead. _Your coworker?_ he wanted to ask her, _Seriously?_ What’s the saying? You shouldn’t shit where you eat? Don’t mix work and play? Though he supposed he could see why Malia might like him. He’d only met ‘Mando’ a few times at department events, but the dude was memorable. Looked like he could be a pro linebacker or wrestler or some other ridiculous oversized wall of muscle occupation. Stiles felt something that was way too close to jealousy rear its ugly head. Chewing on the inside of his lip, Stiles put in the conscious effort to stamp that particular thought down.

Eventually, a hesitant baritone spoke up, _"Um...hello?"_

Well, Stiles was going to chalk this up as officially the most awkward phone call he's ever had. But it's fine. He's an adult. This whole 'open relationship' thing had been his idea after all. He was pretty sure he even kept his tone almost pleasant when he said, "Err…Armando, right?"

_"That's correct,"_ the answer was a bit firmer, but still held a hint of breathiness that Stiles wasn't going to think too hard about.

"Great...yeah. That's...great," he resumed drumming his fingers, "Well, ‘Mando,’ if I hypothetically wanted to keep a hypothetical wolf around, what would I need to do?"

Silence answered him. Not exactly being the picture of patience on a good day, Stiles bounced his foot against the leg of his barstool and prodded, "Hello? Still there?"

_"Are you asking as a private citizen? That's a hard no,"_ any earlier breathlessness was eerily absent as Armando's tone picked up an almost military clip to it, _"AZA association or qualified breeding, exhibiting, or sheltering are the only ways you're keeping a wolf in California."_

Great start. Stiles didn't even know what AZA was and he was pretty sure any 'qualified breeding' was off the table. Did that still count as bestiality? If Stiles wasn't in such a shitty mood, he could have a field day ripping Derek a new one. But he was in a shitty mood; the jokes would have to wait.

"What about wolfish dogs?"

_"How wolfish?"_ Stiles was pretty sure his tone was just getting sharper.

Stiles glanced at Derek, who was studying him with a look he couldn't identify. He's never had to decipher wolf expressions before, okay? The judgy brow was still a thing, but the rest of it was alien. "Looks wolfy but," Stiles struggled for what he could say to sell this, "err...doesn't really act it?" Yeah. That was good. This would totally work. Positive thinking.

There was another stretch of nothing but the staticy sound of breathing. Stiles licked his lips and willed himself to wait it out.

_"Let me make this simple,"_ no doubt about it anymore, the dude sounded pissed, _"If you get a wolfdog and either of its parents were wolves, it's going to a sanctuary. If you get a wolfdog that's past F1 generation, then in Beacon County it's lumped together with dogs."_ Stiles fist pumped the air because _hell yeah!_ They could do this. Legally, at least. Kind of. Maybe not so much on the everything-else part of things.

His celebration was cut short when Armando snapped, _"But I can tell you what happens next. They_ aren't _dogs."_

"Hey!" Stiles offered brightly, "No worries, I got this."

_"Let me finish,"_ he growled, tone leaving no room for argument, _"It'll be skittish. It'll tear apart your home. Your backyard will need to be Fort Knox to keep it contained. And, if it escapes, it_ will _chase things. Cats. Small dogs._ Children. _If you're lucky and it doesn't attack or kill anything, then I can tell you right now you'll get fed up with all the work for what was only meant as a novelty pet. And then you know what happens? Low contents don't go to a sanctuary. No, they sit at a shelter. _My_ shelter. And then _ I'm _the one ordering their euthanasia."_

Stiles held the phone away from his face and huffed in exasperation. He shared a look with Derek, who stared back inscrutably. Snorting, Stiles whispered, "You hearing this?"

Derek nodded and Stiles was pretty sure that the one-eye-slightly-narrower-than-the-other look he was giving was supposed to be an unimpressed look. Or maybe Stiles was just projecting, because that was certainly how he felt right about now. He didn't need some speech on the morals of getting a wolf hybrid, he just wanted to get past this damn headache.

"Hey, thanks for all the tips," Stiles said mildly into the phone, "And a tip for you? The sooner you get hydrogen peroxide in the scratches Malia’s no doubt left you with, the better." With a frustrated finger jab, he ended the call.

Mature? Definitely not. The next department mixer would probably be awkward… Stiles was going to blame Malia. But hey! At least they got info without milling through laws and regulations. That was always a win. Stiles released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and scrubbed his face. On the other side of the island, Derek sat back on his haunches and surveyed the living room / dining room / kitchen spread. Again. Judgy fucker.

“It’s not like I had time to clean,” Stiles grumbled self-consciously because, A, it was true and, B, changing the topic seemed like a great idea. The _best_ idea.

But in all seriousness, his place wasn’t _that_ bad. He’d been really busy and it was totally not his fault that there was a half-eaten pizza going bad on the kitchen counter or most of his laundry on the couch (he was watching a movie while doing laundry, it was _normal_ ) or the heap of paperwork scattered on what was supposed to be a dining room table.

Derek didn’t say anything, but Stiles could _feel_ the scrutiny. Which was totally not fair, because since when had Derek been the model of domesticity? Whether it was a burned down husk or an abandoned train station or a should-be-condemned industrial building, the dude had no right to judge.

Whatever. This was fine. Stiles hopped off his stool and popped open the fridge door. “I’m hungry. You hungry?” This time he was sure he didn’t imagine Derek’s reaction. The dude’s tail even twitched in what Stiles chose to believe was a ‘yes Stiles, you’re amazing and I appreciate everything you’re doing’ reaction. 

And now he was seriously wishing he had gone grocery shopping. Stiles was pretty sure his milk had gone bad, the cold cuts were probably sketchy, and that box of leftovers was…a week old? Two? Definitely should have wrapped up that pizza when he had the chance. Groaning, Stiles slammed the fridge shut and went for the freezer. He had a box of frozen burritos that would have to do.

“Behold!” Stiles pulled out two plastic-wrapped burritos with a flourish, “The fine cuisine of Casa de Stiles.” He yanked one of the packages open and shook the ice chunks that had accumulated into the sink.

It apparently didn’t matter how substandard the quality was, his four-legged guest stepped forward and honest to god licked his chops. Stiles chortled as he tossed the frozen brick on a paper plate and put it in the microwave. “Dude,” he teased, “I’ve never seen anyone so excited for one of these. They’re pretty close to the epitome of dinner regrets.”

The muscles in Derek’s face twitched oddly and Stiles felt a sudden pang of loss. He was pretty sure he had just missed out on one of Derek’s totally pathetic attempts at a comeback.

“We’re going to have to find a way to get you talking again,” he said to himself more than anything, “If Stephen Hawking can do it, so can you.” Stiles pulled the burrito out, flipped it over, and restarted the microwave, “I mean, come on, the dude’s literally paralyzed. You still got working limbs.”

Derek didn’t say anything. Probably because he couldn’t. And Stiles didn’t know what to make of the head tilt or wide eyes, so any kind of rejoinder on Derek’s part was effectively silenced. 

Yeah. They were going to fix that. Somehow. Maybe.

The microwave beeped, pulling Stiles away from his thoughts. He yanked the burrito-on-paper-plate masterpiece out and dropped it down on the linoleum, snatching one of the cookies from his neighbor and adding it to the impromptu dinner.

He was about to start on the other one for himself, but had to stop and gawk when he realized how desperately wolf-Derek had jumped on the burrito and cookie combo. The dude _literally_ wolfed it down, the soggy burrito disappearing in a matter of seconds.

Wolf-Derek looked up, licked his chops, and Stiles could hear the unspoken, _That’s all you got?_

“Oookay,” Stiles stirred himself out of his gaping and went to brush off the ice on the second burrito, “Someone’s hungry. Well, I got about ten of these, so I guess I can just…keep them coming.” He got the second burrito started and dropped two more cookies on Derek’s plate. Stiles stared wide-eyed as Derek almost inhaled them. 

“Geez, Derek,” he muttered. The timer on the microwave was still counting down, but the wolf in his kitchen was already staring up at him, long tongue flicking out to clean crumbs off its snout. Stiles grabbed a couple of cookies for himself and put them aside before he set the entire plate on the floor. Wolf-Derek buried himself in the pile of baked goods with a fervor that Stiles struggled to connect with the Derek he remembered.

It was _weird_. No two ways about it. Outside of that time when Derek had been magically de-aged (which, by the way, Stiles still had _no_ idea how the hell Kate did that), Stiles couldn’t even remember seeing Derek ever eat. Had there even been a kitchen in his loft? Stiles didn’t think so. Bodily function and upkeep were those things that, logically, he knew Derek must have attended to. But actually imagining the old Derek eating a plateful of cookies was just…not something Stiles could do.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Stiles pulled out the second burrito and set it down for Derek to tear apart.

They continued like that for three burritos and at least two-thirds of Ms. Foster’s sugar cookies. It was an insane amount of food, especially considering none of it was particularly good for you. But hey, maybe being able to guzzle down a boatload of junk food was just one of those werewolf perks. 

When Derek finally stepped back from the shredded paper plate and mess of rice, beans, and crumbs scattered about on the linoleum, Stiles clapped his hands together and announced, “Awesome. Now that that’s done and hopefully _never_ to be repeated, I’m calling it a night.” He glanced at his front door, half expecting someone to knock right then and there.

But no one knocked and it looked like he’d actually be able to get some sleep. Stiles squeezed past the massive bulk of black fur to get out of the kitchen and moved further into his home, only pausing when he realized Derek wasn’t following.

Stiles shot a confused look over his shoulder, “You coming?” Derek’s eyes did something weird, which Stiles was going to interpret as an insult. Pointing towards his guest room, he snapped, “It might not be the Hilton, but it’s gotta be better than whatever shit holes you’ve been sleeping in. Sooo,” he made a sweeping gesture, hoping that Derek would get the message and move his ass.

But Derek kept his ass stubbornly where it was. “Oh my god,” Stiles hissed in annoyance. He rubbed a hand over his face and groused, _“Fine,_ whatever, do what you want. Guest room is the one on the left. Take it or leave it.”

Beyond done with the day, Stiles didn’t even bother trying to get into pajamas or go through any of his nightly rituals. Face planting fully-dressed into his bed seemed like a _much_ better idea. His head only just made it to the pillow before his snores filled the room.

* * *

_Beep beep. Beep beep. Beep beep. Beep beep._

Too high pitch and fast to be a dump truck; he probably wasn’t about to be crushed by a trash compactor. Still, years of living on his toes had Derek awake and alert before he managed to figure out whatever the shrill wail was.

A familiar groan bounced off a wall before a loud thwack silenced the alarm. And, Derek realized, that was exactly what it had been. Just an alarm. Likely an alarm clock, if the rustle of sheets and grumbled swears he picked up were anything to go by.

That didn’t explain where he was though. Disoriented, Derek scanned his surroundings. He was on an unfamiliar bed that faintly smelt of a floral perfume in a room he didn’t recognize. Sniffing the air, he caught the scents of Head & Shoulders, gun oil, anxiety, medication, pine, and dirt pervading the space.

_Stiles,_ Derek realized with a jolt as it all came back to him. Finally making it to Beacon Hills. Finding the Sheriff and Stiles. Meeting with Scott in unknown woods. And… Derek sighed and sank back into the bed.

He stared at his paws resting on the comforter. Flexed his wrist and watched as the paw bent but wouldn’t twist. Spread his fingers – no, they’re not fingers, they’re toes – and caught sight of the webbing between the furred digits.

_Better get used to it,_ he thought grimly. Because he was shit out of ideas on how to get his hands back.

_You’re not going to go back to crying under a porch, are you?_

It didn’t even make sense that he still had the obnoxious, grating voice of Stiles echoing in his head. The real Stiles was literally in the same building. All he’d have to do was walk out of the room, cross the living space, and push open the door to the master bedroom. That was all it’d take.

_You can’t fix crazy that easy, big guy._

_Shut up,_ he snapped back. Why couldn’t it be Scott? Even a fake, subconscious version of Scott had to be better than this.

A tried and true way to drown out his thoughts had been to keep himself busy. Exercise and reading had always been good go-to activities, but both seemed like far-reaching goals right about now. Somehow he imagined a push up wouldn’t translate well to four legs. And could he even flip a page?

Derek spotted a bookshelf on the other side of the room. No time like the present to try. Pushing himself to his feet, Derek leapt off the bed and approached the shelf. Standing on his hind legs, he was able to hook a claw in the spine of one of the books and tug it out. It fell on the carpet with a soft thud, falling open to a random page.

His wolf eyes, on their own, had the advantage of a wider field of view and better night vision and motion detection. But visual acuity was definitely not one of their advantages. He couldn’t distinguish the lines on the page for the life of him. It was just a blurred jumble of black ink and off-white paper.

His _real_ eyes, however, let him read the words in sharp relief. These were the eyes that glowed bright blue. The ones that were so tied to his identity that the idea of losing them again made him sick to his stomach. 

Settling down, Derek pressed on the right side of the book and hooked a claw on the other side. He managed to flop the pages over on top of his paw until the title page was staring back up at him.

Derek slipped his paw out from under the pages and pressed it down on the book’s left side in an effort to keep his page. Carefully, he slid a claw under the corner of the title page and, with effort, managed to lift one page and flip it over. The table of contents was next, filled with sections and subsections of words that he didn’t understand. Don’t get him wrong, he could read them so long as he kept his real eyes burning bright. But being able to read the title of one of the subsections didn’t bring him any closer to understanding whatever the hell “kinematic boundary condition for continuity of normal velocity” meant.

Well, it’d at least keep his mind occupied. Derek carefully turned more pages as he worked his way through the contents of what was increasingly looking like some kind of high-level science textbook. Zeta potential? Particle electrophoresis? _Atomistic modeling?_ Derek briefly considered giving Stiles a bit more credit, because he for one certainly couldn’t make heads or tails of what he was reading.

_You never give me enough credit,_ fake-Stiles peacocked.

Derek took it all back. This probably wasn’t even Stiles’ book.

Distantly, Derek could hear the furious scraping of a toothbrush as Stiles went about his morning ritual. He still didn’t feel like talking (or rough communication that was anything other than talking) about what he had planned for himself after failing to shift back. He hadn’t the faintest clue what he’d do now. And having Stiles chatter at him wasn’t likely going to help clear it up any.

But he did have a jargon-heavy introduction that, for now, he could read. And so Derek did just that.

He was just into a part on how important boundary conditions were to microsystems (still couldn’t tell you what that meant), when Stiles poked his head through the doorway.

“You’re still here!” he exclaimed in a strange mix of surprise, apprehension, and excitement.

Derek cocked an eyebrow…or, at least, what he thought was an eyebrow. Stiles own gaze trailed down to see what Derek was doing and he snorted, “Dude, are you seriously reading that? That’s, like, barely English.”

Silence stretched between them and Stiles shifted uncomfortably. What had he been expecting? Some kind of comeback? Rapid fire insults were on the tip of his tongue: _Anything past young adult is beyond your reading ability. What library did you steal this from? Have you ever even read anything that wasn’t assigned for homework?_ But he was left to settle with a jerk of his head, which hopefully translated to a condescending _what do you want_.

Stiles’ fingers twitched against his thigh. “So, I gotta go to work now,” he gestured widely to where his car was parked outside, “But, uh, make yourself at home? I’ll be back around six and we can talk…or, uh, ‘tap out’ or whatever. About what you want to do. Or not do. In reference to your,” he made another broad sweeping gesture, this time in Derek’s direction, “furry little problem.”

Derek felt that a low growl rumbling through his chest was an _entirely_ appropriate way to answer that.

If it wasn’t for his supernatural hearing, Derek wouldn’t have heard Stiles grumble a quiet, _“Rude,”_ before heading out the front door and locking up.

Having the house to himself, however, did not mean that he was free from an imagined gravelly voice. _So are you going to man up? Or are you going to keep ignoring your problems and read this shitty book instead?_

Derek flipped the page.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully the next slump, whenever it inevitably happens, won't be quite so long as that last one.


End file.
